


The Medic Learns to Rap

by Anonymous



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Crack, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9126397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Medic decides to learn a new skill and thanks to a tip from the Scout he sets off on a short adventure to get it.Crack-fic for a fan-fiction contest on the tf2 forums that I never entered.





	

The Medic Learns to Rap

It was another sundry day in the dusty dustbowls of dustbowl, and the RED team found themselves loaded with free time on this stalematey map from hell. The sniper locked himself away with copious amounts of sad koala documentaries and tissues. The heavy stood at the BLU spawn gates spamming merciless tomislav fire. The bLU team was shuttered in their three entryway hell hole by a single sentry. The engineer though was disgruntled that his sentry would never know the soft succulent slap of heavy ham meat against it’s cold steel frame. The Pyro was off being an OP piece of shit harassing the poor spy players who actually took skill to do anything and managed to get out of their deathtrap of a spawn room. The rest had nothing to do.  
The RED Medic approached his favourite patient, the Scout, who was listening to some real gangsta shit, Usher.  


“Scout, I vant to ehh, improve myzelf. Zo iff dezided to take up something you vill appreciate.” 

The scout stared at him. 

“Rapping!” the Medic squealed and flung his arms in the air. 

The scout’s gaze turned into one of abject confusion. “Wha, what?” 

“Vhere should I start? Vhere should I go?! Ohhh ohoho ho! I am zoo exzited.”The medic’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.  


“Duhhh.” The scout drolled. Presently, he stood up, eyes fierce as fire, and a gaping smile the grand canyon could not tolerate. “Salt Lake City brudda! Find youself some of dem dere straight edge fellas, offer ‘em some dope, tah get on their good side, and den get yerself some sweet rappin’ trainin’.” 

The medic’s eyes lit up."Of course!"  


Presently, the RED Medic found himself at Salt Lake City International Airport. A man in a white shirt and black tie was trying to flag down a woman who appeared to be in a hurry. 

“Maam! Do you have a moment to hear the mighty word of our prophet?!” 

“So sorry I’ve gotta catch a bus!” 

“Fucking shit lying cunt magnet! You’ve salvation to consider!” 

She hurried her steps. 

“Fucking bitch cunt titty fucking fuck fuck!” He screamed after her. 

The medic’s interest peaked presently. He approached the out of breath man. 

“Are yoo a rapper?” the German chirped. Disgust flooded the man’s face. 

“Fuck no. Jesus Fucking Christ fuck these fucking fuck.” The man vomited a thick yellow bile that splashed on the Medic’s boots . The Medic ignored this and asked. 

“Where can I find zome straight edge peeps?” Medic flashed the horns. Vomit dribbled from the man’s nose, his face contorted again. 

“Ughh, a fucking pub, jazz club probably.” 

The medic beamed. “Zhank oh zhank you!” he ran off to find the nearest jazz club to complete his feverish dream.  


After meandering downtown for mere seconds the Medic found a place, The Black Chair. Inside, cigars claimed the air. Presently tens of tables tobbled the floor, each with chairs and a little candle in a little dish you know like in the movies. Presently the Medic found himself seated a third away from the stage. Presently Frank Herbert’s spinning stupefied the caretakers and took off on his own drilling away to the waters of life. Few others were in the small jazz lounge, what appeared to be regulars, with hats and inside jokes stacked high. A coronet, a bassist, and a drummer took the stage. The lights dimmed, and the medic’s excitement grew. “A rap battle!?” He thought and bit his lower lip. A voice boomed over the stage now lit with mood lighting. 

“Ladies and gentlemen would you put your hands together puleeeeeaaase for our very own , Salacious, slithering, slender, celibate, sinner, sousa –summing, souse-swinging, slimy pole, with the sanguineous stare….Saxwell!”  


Sure enough a greasy slimeball stick of a man appeared on stage. Dark hair, dark glasses and a saxophone that reached to his knees. The medic frowned. You cannot rap with a woodwind! Bathed in blue, “Blue Skies” was belted out from the band. Applause roared. The Medic stared, lost and confused, how will he complete his dream now? He caught the eye of the insidious Saxwell, well he thought he did, black glasses you know. Well he did. A silvery slinking smile slithered it’s way onto the disgusting man’s lips. The Medic suddenly felt alone, in a vapid tunnel devoid of sound, a lone spotlight on the smirk of a man slowly heading towards him with a saxophone. With each salacious step the Medic’s grimace tightened, and a pearly white glint slipped out from those supple pale lips. Tense as a toenail, the Medic was, and the man was before him, smiling. He stared, moving his head as to try and break the tall man’s gaze but he couldn’t. His head quivered in fear, the darkness around him closing in. There were but two people in this dark void. The sax man leaned in, he wasn’t even close but the sickly salty warm cigar breath encompassed the Medic, adding a putrid layer to his sweat covered brow. A sweet low baritone voice poured over him like chocolate liqueur.  


”Ngaaaaah!” The Medic yelled. The Medic didn’t even hear what the sexy sax man said, he just screamed like Nigel Thornberry. He fell backwards from his chair, finally free of the freezing stare, rolled backwards and slipped to his feet stumbling frantically to the door. Cries of laughter surged around the now populated room. He didn’t look back, but he could feel a fiendish smile drilling into the back of his head.  


Exhausted, the Medic perused the alleys to find someone something to help him learn to rap. By dumb luck he came across a gaggle of men, Straight edge men! He could tell from their tattoos and vest pins. Quickly he whipped out the gigantic bag of dope the Scout told him to use to gain their approval. 

“He.. hello! I have zomething for you!” One of them turned and caught the bag the Medic tossed, just like the Scout said. 

“What the fuck?” The others turned. 

“ Oh no. No you didn’t. Oh shit.” Soon the medic was experiencing the worst police brutality this left side of LA. The brutish blunt baton strikes left him in the Zion hospital, unconscious for four months. When he awoke it was mid December, and no one, absolutely no one came to his side, or wondered where the hell he was. A doctor came in an hour or so after he regained consciousness. 

“Jesus.” He muttered. “You haven’t paid the entire time you’ve been here. Lazy piece of shit.” The Medic fidgeted. “I’m putting you down for ZCMI retail pronto so you can work it off.” The Medic opened his mouth, nothing. He passed out again. When he awoke there was a roar of rustling papers, rows and rows of hospital beds with tables and wrapping paper, with people wrapping gifts for the busy Christmas season. 

“Buh” he uttered. The man in a chemo bed next to him snapped his fingers. 

“Hey man you gotta get working or they will punish us all!” The medic sat up, a microwave box on a table in front of him, wrapping paper and tape to his left. He frowned and turned to the man. 

“But.. but.. I don’t know how to wrap.” 

“Don’t worry man, I’ve got you covered.” The medic’s eyes lit up like Christmas bells. 

“Yo.you mean you’ll teach me how to rap?!” 

His question was met with a confused stare. “Uh.. yeah man.”

Dedicated to Junko.


End file.
